


With Sincerity, Yours

by DearestShay



Category: Fifty Shades of Grey - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Drama, F/M, Romance, ongoing
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-11-24
Updated: 2019-03-31
Packaged: 2019-08-28 09:44:27
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 11
Words: 22,431
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16720983
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DearestShay/pseuds/DearestShay
Summary: Anastasia Steel has been through a lot in her life, and Christian Grey has been there with her, just one step behind. When one falls, the other is expected to catch them, but persisting pains have left their relationship in a mystifying state of limbo. Can the two bandage their wounds, becoming something more? Or will they be consumed by their vices?Ongoing, AU, Romance/Drama. Christian/Ana only.





	1. Chapter 1

_You’re losing it, you know._

“Fuck…you,” I drawl under my breath. He shakes his head at me and for the tiniest fraction of a second I see his eyes drop from mine to the exposed column of my neck, his lips pursing as my throat bobs, his fists clenching as I tug my lip between my teeth.

“Let me take you home,” he offers as he shrugs his jacket off of his shoulders to drape over me. He sees me making no move to stand so he trudges to my front and offers his hand. I don’t take it.

He sighs, exasperated, and yanks me up from the spot beneath my arm, towing me out of the dark alley I somehow managed to crawl into. His grip on my arm is rough, and he seems to be in a rush as he pulls me onto the sidewalk where we blend into the bustling nightlife of the city. His steps are quick, concentrated on getting to his car. Mines are clumsy and ill-paced in my mismatched heels; I want to be resistant but am too intoxicated to even slow him down lest I trip over myself. The ground beneath me seems to morph from a solid to something akin to rubber, causing my legs to wobble every time my soles hit the pavement.

And it’s so hard to see. Everything is distorted, the fine lines of reality ripped smoothly by the seam so there were two parts: what was really there and what I saw. It was hard to distinguish between the two. Maybe everything that had happened that night was a figment of my imagination, the regretful result of binging on absinthe, Klonopine and Thai food. Whether it was all real or not, I remember it all with crystal clarity.

I remember the shadows were prancing across the illuminated storefronts, the hideous, ugly faces and figures rising up from where steel met cement and looming over me as I was carted along. The face that was most familiar to me, most malicious, gave me a sinister smile, communicating with me. It was promising me that there was nowhere for me to hide from it, no matter where I went or what I turned to. I dropped my head to the ground as its gaze left mine and swiped angrily at the moisture that rolled down my cheeks.

We finally reach his car where he tugs me to a stop, and he opens the door swiftly, shoving me inside none too gently. The second my ass hits the cool seat he slams the door, scaring me half out my skin. Why was he being such a dick to me?

I kept my head down as he went around the car, climbing into his own seat, and for a minute we just sit in a loaded silence. He exhaled heavily, then reached into his pocket to fetch his keys, and the second it reached the ignition my hand flashed out to steady his where it was.

His face was hard as he turned to me, his mouth set in a hard line. I felt his fingers flex beneath my own.

“Where are you taking me?” I breathed, winded from the way his eyes stared me down.

“Where else?”

“I don’t want to go there.”

“I could give two fucks where you want to go right now.”

“Can I go home with you?”

“Absolutely not.”

“Why not?” I demanded, drunk, offended.

“Because I don’t want to babysit you for an entire night. This is more than enough for me.”

“So why the fuck did you come to get me?” I tightened my grip on his hand, my voice raising. “Why can’t you leave me alone then?”

“You listen to me,” he snarled, and suddenly he’d leaned over me in my seat. I pressed my head tightly into the headrest to maintain half an inch of space between our faces as his fingers dug into my hip. My head reeled at the sudden movement. It was something akin to a small animal being bounced around in an enclosed ball. The unmistakable burn of bile crawled up the back of my throat. “I’m going to take you home now. You have to go back eventually so why are you avoiding it? Two weeks I let you roam around. You smell like alcohol, sweat, and garbage; your hair looks like a fucking nest, and frankly you look like a prostitute. So stop being difficult, put your seat belt on, and let’s go back to your place so you can go back to being human. What the fuck are you running from?”

He pulled away from me, and I kept my eyes focused on the windshield where he had just been, unmoving.

I did stink. The smell was rolling off of me in snaking waves and encompassing the car, seeping into the fabric of the seats. It’d been so long, and I’d drunk so much that I scarcely remember what the house looked like anymore.

But I didn’t care.

I didn’t want to go back.

“I don’t know,” I whispered. “Come home with me.” I grabbed hold of Christian’s jacket sleeve and held on tight, adamant. “If you come home with me I won’t be difficult. But I won’t stay there alone. I just won’t. Please?”

“Anastasia,” he sighed. “I have to get home myself. Elena’s waiting on a call from me…”

“Fuck her. I’m not sure what makes you think I actually care. Tell her you’ll see her tomorrow. _I_ need you, Christian. She can wait.” I hadn’t chosen the right words.

“Watch it. You’re a grown woman. You’re capable of living alone.”

I thought so, too, but that house could reduce a boulder to a pebble.

“I just don’t want to be alone tonight,” I responded, more softly now, somewhat defeated. “You don’t have to stay with me, but there’s no guarantee I’ll stay there either,” I shrugged. “It’s your choice; stay with me or waste your time searching for me again tomorrow night.”

He eyed me warily with his mouth half open, and with a groan he shook his head. “This is fucking ridiculous,” he muttered to himself, then jerked my hold of him off forcefully. I sat back in my seat, triumphant, and Christian turns the key in the ignition and takes off down the street. I give him one last drowsy smile, then turn to my window, and my smugness is wiped clean off as that familiar shadow’s face turns down in disapproval, in anger, before he melds back into the concrete.


	2. Chapter 2

_I haven’t had a hangover in such a long, long time._

Granted, the reason for that was because in the past six days I hadn’t stopped pouring alcohol down my throat long enough to sober up, but, shit, I would have gladly sacrificed my liver to relieve the missing yet burning spot on my brain.

I think I’ve been sitting at Christian’s cool and pristine breakfast bar for about an hour in the same position—elbows on the counter, wrists bent inward so the fingers touched, and face buried in my arm with one leg thrown out haphazardly—while I wait for that disgusting burn in my throat to abate.

I hadn’t slept very well, of course. I never fucking did. I probably hadn’t had a good night’s sleep in... Oh, about six months. I was lucky to get three to four hours. I was always exhausted.

As I wipe a bit of drool from the corner of my mouth onto my arm I feel a hard smack on my lower back, and I jut forward with a groan as Christian saunters past me to the fridge. The movement makes too much air pass between my ears, and I want to die right then and there.

“Morning, drunky!” He is twisting the section of a newspaper he’d hit me with into a thin tube, his cloudy-day gray gaze flickering between me, the fridge, and my drool-laden arm.

“Oh my god, will you not? Please? I feel like someone’s alternating between playing hardcore tennis and hacky sack with my skull, and I just really don’t need,” I wiggle a couple of stiff fingers in his direction, “any of this right now.”

“Eh,” he shrugs. “Serves you right.”

“Shut up. Give me a drink.”

“No. What do you want for breakfast?”

“Booze.”

“I can make you French toast and eggs if you’re up for it?” he offers, ignoring me. “Or something lighter?”

“I’ll take your strongest cocktail, thank you very much.”

He stares me down severely, then shuts the fridge door with a slam as he throws open the cupboards. “Cereal it is, then.”

“I like mine with Vodka, please and thank you.”

I had been watching him, so I saw how my quip made the tendons in his arms jump and his fingers flex on the smooth wooden doors of the cabinet. His back was to me, but we’d been friends for a very long time now. I could imagine his jaw grinding against itself and his nostrils flaring as his eyes narrowed on whatever he had his sights on. It was an extremely intimidating look, even more daunting due to his large frame. It was a look that said, “Keep that shit up. I double-dog dare you, motherfucker.” He should have had it patented.

My brain was too fuzzy to judge time in even a semblance of correctly, but he didn’t turn around or address me again for quite a while. He wasn’t a big fan of my drinking, obviously. I was pretty sure he wanted to lift me up by the biceps and toss my ass out onto the sidewalk right about now. I wait for him to calm down. I really _could_ use some food; I haven’t eaten in ages.

“Are you done?” His deep baritone punctures the tense silence with an obvious trial at patience. His arms have to hurt by now. He still hasn’t moved even a muscle. He is very fit though. Maybe he is unaffected.

“I am. Sorry. It's the stress finally catching up to me.” It's the house, finally worming itself back into my system.

He sighs and finally puts his poor arms at rest, turning to rest his hip against the counter as he watches me. Lucky me, I am used to that intense stare of his. There was a time when it made even me flush with awareness but the years had been good to me, and I hardly even fidget anymore, especially when I am not in very much trouble with him.

"Are you ready to talk to me?"

I snort. "God, no."

"What's the hesitation?"

"My subconscious is making sure I don't prove that I've been stripped of all of my sanity just yet."

"Oh yeah?"

"Mmm."

"Alright then." He slinks around the bar to sink into the barstool beside me and leans heavily on the seat with one arm thrown over the back, the other reaching out to sink into my fuzzed strands as his fingers work through some knots. I cringe when he makes contact with my scalp but I nearly purr with delight as he plays with my hair.

"That feels so good," I hear myself mutter.

"I bet. When do you plan on showering, by the way? You're stinking up my kitchen."

I scoff. "Way to kill the mood there, Casanova."

"Mmm. So?"

"After you feed me, probably. At least then I'll have the energy to stand."

"Right... Hey, Ana?"

"What?"

And suddenly those gentle fingers I am willing to build a shrine for are balling into a fist in my hair as he drags my head up from my arm. It isn't that the action is rough, so much as it fucking hurts my alcohol starved brain. A pitiful noise scratches my throat and I squint away from the stretching rays of the morning sun as they peek into the minimalism-in-mind state-of-the art kitchen. Everything is just so clean and immaculate that it is impossible not to throw glints of light back at us.

I want to turn my head away but, O God, the pain. It is searing everything located behind my eyeballs.

"Ana."

For fuck's sake, please don't use The Honey Velvet on me right now. I just can't take it.

"Ana...?"

"What?" I relent. "What, what?"

"In the butt?"

"Don't make me laugh, you jackass."

"Please stop drinking so heavily, Ana." The heavenly soothing stops, and his free hand goes to picking up the occupied one's slack in massaging my head. "It not only affects you but me as well. You know how much I worry about you, especially after your parents."

"Yeah, I know."

"So take it easy," he orders, his voice severe. "Look at me. No more, Ana. Enough is enough. You're a grown woman; I shouldn't have to go tracking you down in the middle of the night to make sure that you're not dead or lying in a ditch. That shit scares me and you know it."

I swallow guiltily. My lip juts out petulantly. "I know."

"So you know it's time to stop running from your problems and talk about them?"

"You are such a woman, Christian. Always wanting to talk and whatnot."

"Ana..."

I sigh. "Look, if this were something as simple as being unhappy with my life then do you really believe I would be acting like this? I'm scared shitless, okay? You’re the only person I can really trust, the only one who knows me, and even you can’t understand what I’m going through. You think I wanna sit in some shrink’s office hearing them ask me about how shit makes me feel for an hour? Come on, babe, use your head."

"I am using my head. Sadly though, you're not using yours. You think destroying your body makes your problems disappear? It doesn't. It creates more problems. When are you going to grow up and absorb that into your thick skull?"

Grow up? As if I hadn’t been doing that for years already? "Get off of me."

"When, Anastasia?"

"Will you get off of me? I can hear you well enough with my personal space still intact!"

My massage long forgotten, Christian takes my jaw between his thumb and forefinger to hold my gaze to his. I am scowling for sure, and the longer he looks at me, the softer his features become. Pity sets into the lines of his handsome face. It is a look I knew well.

“Stay with me,” he says softly, and holds my head fast as I begin shaking it back and forth. “I’m not taking a no. Where the hell else would you even go, you stubborn thing?” His blow loses its impact from his dazzling smile. It is as bad as the damn sun shining all over the place.

“Well if I don’t get a say in the matter in the first place,” I acquiesce with the roll of my eyes.

“That a girl.”

*

With the man of the house off to work I go off on a personal tour of his domain. I wasn’t surprised when Christian said he wanted to start over from scratch years ago. We both wanted to leave our pasts behind. After saving up for a whiles and getting himself in the comfy position of being his own boss he knocked over whatever house stood on these 5 acres and built himself a home.

He had done well for himself. A sparkling blue pool in the back, a welcoming cobblestone lined yard in the front, and way too much space inside, the house was immense.

And yet, only Christian lived here now.

I step into Christian’s study room, drink in hand, very mindful in not tripping over the air. He’d give me hell if I ruined his big, white carpet. And even more hell if I wasted the juice.

The walls are lined with degrees and certificates and honors from all over the place. A couple of obscure paintings give the room some color. The walls are identical to steel, the borders a rich dark wood of some sort. There is one floor-to-ceiling window in the back of the room, one-third the size of the wall, in the center, that faces out to the perfectly manicured backyard.

Tapping the computer mouse a few times, I plop into his black leather chair and get comfy. I would be here for a while.

The screen comes to life, and somewhere deep inside of me where the alcohol hadn’t gotten to yet, a pain ebbs.

*

“Knock-knock.”

My body jolts back to life. Christian peeks from behind the door, just the dark mop of the top of his head and his eyes and nose are showing. I stretch with a yawn, wiping my eyes and clearing my throat as if he’s caught me sleeping. I might as well have been. If he asks, I couldn’t have told him what I have been doing the last couple of hours.

“This is your house, babe. You don’t need to knock,” I tell him, as if he isn’t already very aware that he lives here.

Christian meanders into the room slowly, hands in his pockets. His face conveys effortless ease, but I know him too well. He wants to be nosy and is bursting at the seams to ask what I have been up to. My lips will remain sealed.

“How’s your head?” He leans over the desk to pick up a few strands of my hair and caresses the ends between his fingers. His tone strives for casual.

“Better than earlier. Not great. How went being a human?” I glance down to his clean cotton V-neck. “You’re in casuals.”

“I left early.”

My eyebrow rises. “And you didn’t come home?”

His head dips just slightly, abashed, and he releases my hair to return to his pockets. “I was with Elena for most of the afternoon.”

“Oh.”

“Ana—“

I hold my hand up to stop him. I don’t want to know. I don’t care. Christian being Christian, tension knits his dark brow, and in a less casual manner than he’s come in, he goes behind me and pulls out the cute little ottoman from under the desk and sits beside me. I start to protest but he isn’t having it. He rolls me back in my chair, almost forcefully pulling me in my seat so my back is to him and I am turned with my legs in the seat.

“Christian…”

“Ana,” he echoes. “Lay back.”

“Ugh, I hate you sometimes, you know that?”

“I know.” He rubs his palms up and down his lap and gives me an almost pleading, boyish look. “Please.”

I sigh but crumble. He knows how to reel me in. With him guiding me down, I rest the back of my head on Christian’s thighs and wriggle my butt further down into the leather chair. This is a practiced maneuver, but a natural one. Like instinct, my left hand reaches for his and our fingers entwine, and I feel a hushed wave of peace flow through me. My eyes close with it, my pulse calms to its lull. I can feel Christian’s eyes fixed on me but I don’t care to look back. His scent, different but the same from years back, masculine but clean and biological, is all around me. His warmth radiates in my back, in my fingertips, under my skin. The safety and security of a lifetime has returned to visit me, if only for a few moments.

“Do you remember,” he asks softly, “when we were kids? How, uh, we snuck out back to the old tree, with all our beddings? We climbed up into…what was the name? Ol’ Maria!” The quiet breath of his laugh fans my face. A smile creeps onto my lips. “We camped out on that big branch that connected to your window, listening in on your parents. Watching the night go by. Just like this. You fell asleep on me.”

“Yeah.” I rest my hand on his roaming one, my skin prickling as his fingers strum the ticklish flesh behind my ear, down my neck. “We were really late for school and Grace had a panic attack when she couldn’t find you, but you couldn’t climb down when they found us…”

“’Cause my legs were asleep for a good ten minutes after you woke up.” __________

Our quiet laughs permeate the stillness, and I open my eyes because Christian’s smile is too special a treat to pass on. The expression freezes as our gazes lock, and a heated fervor replaces it. His mouth opens but no sounds come out. His hands have stilled and stiffened. He has something to say.

“Ana…” He waits for my interruption, and continues when there is none. “I miss you,” he whispers, and I’m glad that I haven’t stopped him.

I squeeze the hand holding mine in a silent request, and as he lets go I shape it to the soft, stubbly contours of his face, reminding myself of its feel, its texture. “I miss you, too.”

Something crosses his expression—relief, joy? In contrast, he gives me a sad smile, and I know what thoughts are playing behind his peering gray eyes.

I start to disentangle myself of him.

“We done already?” His smile has reached his voice.

“Yeah,” I say, and he lets me up with care, helping me to vertical, and then onto my feet. We stand beside each other, not facing, but not turned away, and a new atmosphere has chased away the old. I feel somewhat bad for making him do all the work between us today but I cannot find the words. I don’t need to—he speaks first.

“I think…we should have a talk that’s long overdue.”

My mouth has dried in the span of a sentence. I can feel my iron walls stack up around me and I look to the floor, the door, the corner of the room; anywhere but his eyes.

“We’ll go out for drinks?” he offers, but he knows as well as I do that I will decline. Christian never changes.

“You know I would,” I say with raised brows, retreating from his vicinity to the door, “but I’ve been seized of alcoholic beverages for about a week, doctor’s orders.”

“You can have something virgin.” He suggests, never one to take no. But he is well aware that this isn’t something that’s about to happen. He still needs to try.

“Where’s the fun in that? I’ll leave you to work. I’m going to sleep, but you know where to find me.” It is still pretty early in the afternoon, but I am known to be out like the deceased. The door is a few inches from closed when Christian calls out to me. I peek in.

“I’m sorry,” he says in parting, humbly, and I can feel the years of distance in his voice, see it shadow and engrave in his features. This was the apology he had been warning me of, in little hints in his gestures and words. It makes me ache inside. I don’t want or deserve it because I have been just as mad.

The difference is I’m not ready to apologize to him yet. My grip on the door knob tightens.

“Good night, Christian.” I’ve shut the door, rested my head on it to take a breath, and light as a breeze of wind I hear his rumble through the wood.

“Good night, Anastasia.”

  


 

  


  



	3. Chapter 3

“ _Mia will be here within the hour.”_

Please, O merciful one on high, strike me down.

“I would have given you the heads-up in advance but I’m just finding this out myself.”

I finally get the slumber I’ve been dying for and it’s only half-lived. I remove the blankets from my face long enough to see that the sun has already begun to set, and immediately return to my warm cocoon. I hear Christian approach regardless.

“How long do I have to escape?” I groan.

“No time, because you’re not going anywhere. Come on, get up.”

“You would force me to see her? Are you mad?”

He starts to remove my layering. I could weep. “You’re blowing this out of proportion.”

I don’t believe I am. Christian’s family is beyond tightly knit, and the Greys are very protective of their own. I am not naïve; I know that my long absence weighed heavily on Christian, as his did for me. This was an “us” problem, and we would sort it out eventually, but Mia was the last of the Grey family to known the boundary of the word “us”. Somewhere in her mind, that word registered with a “me, too”.

“Please, Christian, if you’ve ever loved me, leave me be.”

It takes my sleep-addled brain a second or two to realize what’s left my mouth when I hear his sharp intake of air, and out of guilt I crawl out of my nest willingly. Christian’s expression is wrenched, as if he wants both to respond to what I’ve said in more ways than one and he doesn’t want to respond at all. He seems to drop it as I’ve gotten to my feet.

“She’ll only be here for a few hours,” he continues, recouping, looking down for a moment, then past me. I see them briefly and his eyes hold on to what he cannot say. He grabs me by the wrist, leading me out of my room and down the hall to his. “Dinner, drinks—limited for you, of course—and we’ll be rendezvousing with my mother.”

I moan loudly, shutting my eyes tight in part from exasperation, as well as from how blindingly white Christian’s en-suite is. “We’re seeing Grace, too? Why am I being dragged out for this?”

“Because social interaction is good for the soul.” He rips open the packaging of a toothbrush from his cabinets, and hands it to me. I stand, sulking, toothbrush out as he squeezes a gob of toothpaste out for me, and commence brushing as he gives me his back. He’s only dressed from the waist down, and his back is a work of art; I gawk openly at him as he hits the shower tap, and the room fills with steam almost instantly.

“Get in. Taylor should be here in a few—I had him pick you up a few pieces to wear out. I’ll help you with your hair after you wash it.” I imagine my ears perking up like in the cartoons when I hear Taylor’s name.

I rinse my mouth out and toss the toothbrush on the counter, then spin around and catch Christian around the neck in surprise. His hands go to my waist to still me, lest I barrel him over onto the floor. His arms come around me naturally after a moment. My poorly chosen words earlier still have me feeling remorseful, and I only want to smooth them over now. I haven’t been grateful enough to Christian since he came for me in that alley yesterday. I make a silent promise to myself to make it up to him. “Thank you, daddy dearest,” I say into his shoulder. “What would I do without you?”

“You’ll never have to find out.” He pinches my chin when I release him and leaves me to clean up.

*

Mia is stunning. I was quite underdressed, but I couldn’t be assed to change now, and Christian is adamant in telling me he likes what I am already in. I would have sworn we were going out someplace casual, but her dress tells me otherwise. It’s black, long and shiny, with a dramatic slit up the leg to her thigh. The shining buckle around her midriff complements the deep plunge of her neckline. Her hair is short and bouncy and just perfect, shinier than the dress, I’d say. She looks fabulous.

It is too bad the vibes and dagger-eyes she is giving me keet me from saying so. She has been giving me clipped, cold responses since she knocked on the door, but is all smiles and giggles for Christian. I am sure he is rethinking not letting me stay in for this particular outing. The night will be far from the most pleasant. I excuse myself from the conversation Mia doesn’t address me in to step outside.

I’m careful going down the long pavement. Heels are not my strong point, and where they aren’t tall, I am still wobbly. Mentally, I question Christian’s intentions of my health, removing my feet from the earth just a day after he finds me so drunk I was interstellar.

When I reach the street I beam. It is more than a nice kick seeing Taylor again. It has been a few years. Hard-assed as ever he’s dressed smartly, his hair as tidy as a buzz cut gets, and he’s standing in front of the black Range Rover fist in hand, shades on. The moment he spots me, he’s all teeth. He comes over and gives me tight embrace, lifting me off the ground.

“I hear you’re getting yourself into all kinds of trouble lately, Ana,” he says after pleasantries, setting me back on my feet and holding me at arms’ length to look me over. “I’m glad to see with my own eyes that you’re healthy and well, if a bit skinny.”

My bond with Taylor is almost familial. He and my father had been friends since I could remember, and my dad was the one to introduce Taylor into the Greys’ lives. I can’t help my grin.

“Please believe I’ve heard more than enough of that from Christian. You look good old man. The years are showing you favoritism.”

He grunts indifferently, then gives me a bit of a squeeze and a firm look and I can predict what’s coming next. “He worried himself sick, you know, seeing you how you were. It goes without even saying that I was, too, right along with him.”

Immediately I feel discomfort. “I know,” I answer, half-hearted, because I don’t know what else I can say. It is bizarre bringing up my short bender with Taylor, let alone that Christian hasn’t mentioned it himself yet. I am exceedingly thankful for his patience with me, but this conversation with Taylor is simply a reminder that I can look forward to something that is impending, inevitable.

“If you ever need to talk, Ana, you know I’m here…”

I grab Taylor into another big hug and kiss his coarse cheek. “I know, thank you. And I swear I’m not an alcoholic, if that’s what you’re wondering. I just had…a rough time.”

“We’ll always be here for you, Anastasia. Don’t forget it.”

“I believe it. Now, tell me what you and Gail have been up to.”

*

The dinner date passes on fairly well, with very minor hiccups. After a pretty tense car ride, we met Christian’s mother at an elegant but intimate little restaurant uptown, and she only cried for a few minutes when she saw me so too much damage hadn’t been done. Bless her, she didn’t ask me what I’d been up to. After the meal, we migrated next door to a nightclub that was also rather swanky, but plenty expensive. I’d forgotten myself in complaining over the prices to Christian and he shut me down quick, not even giving me time to realize my mistake.

“Who fucking orders ice cream in a club?” I whisper to him in a hiss, fuming. I was more surprised that the place even _had_ the ice cream in stock to fulfill his request, but then there was a chance that he knew or owned the management. We’re sitting at a booth that overlooks the bottom floor, and while there is some dancing in the middle, it seems like more people are here for the atmosphere than to shake and grind to the tunes. Mia and Grace are deep into some sort of conversation that neither Christian nor I care to ponder on.

“I do,” he answers simply, full of himself, “and you’ll eat every bite of it.”

“The hell I will. Both you and Taylor are going on like I’ll drink every bottle behind the bar. I bet you ordered me plain vanilla, too, didn’t you?”

“Anastasia, I don’t do vanilla,” he says with a grin, and I shove his shoulder. We’re in very close proximity of one another and he smells delightful. He looks dapper and charming in his vest and blazer, and his hair is tousled to perfection. Christian whispers something into my ear as the server arrives and I burst into a fit of giggles, drawing both Mia and Grace’s attention as the waiter distributes drinks.

If looks could kill, Mia could have drilled me through without mercy. I’ve decided to address this mood of hers at the end of the night. It’s needless to poison the evening over nonsense. I have a feeling I know what’s coming but I’m not sure how I’ll deal with it.

Christian is without mercy. He’s in rare form tonight, on a mission to make me laugh until I cry, and he’s doing damn well. Whether this is his attempt at easing the friction between his sister and I or he is just in a playful mood I’m unsure, but I don’t care to look into it. I’ve missed Christian more than I’ve let on; I believe it’s starting to show. Anyone on the outside wouldn’t even be able to guess that this is the first time we’ve been relaxed around each other in almost three years, and that puts me far back into my comfort zone.

And then I hear the loud-ish slam of a glass hit the table. I look up from Christian’s shoulder to across the table, and Mia is staring at me full-on, expressionless. Oh boy…

“Ana,” she pronounces, voice strong, “let’s have a chat.”

I nod as I extricate myself from Christian’s side. He helps me out of the booth and down the small steps, his hand on my lower back. He leans in close for a moment and the sweet of his breath breezes over me. “I’m right here,” he murmurs, and I’m instantly at ease. I turn, give him a wink, and I’m following Mia out of the club with a purposeful stride, back straight, shoulders squared.

Time to face the firing squad.


	4. 4

_Mia and I have never…seen eye to eye, even when we were children._

In her eyes, I imagine, I was the girl that kept big brother from playing house with her, or who kept him from taking her to the ice cream truck when it rolled by, regardless that she had the eldest brother Elliott to do these things with. She would snub me whenever I visited the Grey’s, turning her nose up and vacating the area with a haughty march. It wasn’t until we were both in our teens that I sought to clear the air with her. I just wanted the petty bullshit to stop. I just wanted Christian. The animosity had been absent since then.

It must have been making a comeback.

Looking at Mia now, with her arms crossed and her perfectly made-up face in a scowling pout, I am eerily reminded of ending the drama with her over a decade ago. Something tells me it will be a little less civil this time.

“I’ll be honest with you, Ana,” she begins, “I don’t exactly know how to have this talk with you. I’ve been trying to find the words all night.”

That explains the death glares, I suppose. “Say what comes to your mind,” I offer, rubbing my shoulders from the chill. The faster this is put of the way, the better.

She nods. “Ana, I want you to stay away from Christian.”

Wow, blunt. I cannot suppress the stunned look I must have. My left brow is reaching for my hairline and my eyes are wide as they get. I’m dearly fighting to keep from smiling. I may look comical.

“Okay,” I laugh, breathy. I look down to the ground to give myself a moment of composure, and when I return my gaze to Mia’s, she’s stalwart. I smile just a little. “Why? Why do you want me to stay away from Christian?”

I don’t laugh at her out of disrespect. I do, truthfully, have a great respect for all of the Grey family. My humor comes from the knowledge that she knows exactly what Christian and I are like firsthand, probably better than anyone else does. She was there when we were kids, throughout our teens, and into early adulthood. So why she finds it necessary to make a proclamation like this one… well, I think it laughable. But, I am interested in what she has to say, and I want to hear her out.

“I’m sorry, I don’t get the joke,” she snaps. “You must think the suffering of someone you claim to love is funny, Anastasia, but I don’t.”

I sober instantly. If ever there were a wrong set of words to use with me, those would be the ones. My tongue turns to venom. “You don’t know shit, Mia. So don’t talk like you do. I came out to hear what you have to say, so please, say it.”

“You seem to think just coming back into his life whenever you feel like it is acceptable, but that is far from the case. You _hurt_ him, Ana. Badly. But selfish as you are, you see right past that, don’t you?”

“I’ll say it again, Grey,” I grind out, my voice low. I take a few steps closer so I’m a foot away, to be sure she hears me this time. “You,” I pronounce slowly, “Don’t. Know. Shit. Do not, _ever_ , speak to me like you do.”

She does not back down from me, in fact she steps closer. “I know you’re like a walking vial of poison. I know you’ll do whatever you can to drag Christian down into whatever hell you dwell in day to day. I know you’re _weak_. I’m sorry you lost your parents, Ana, I am; but that was years ago. Hearing that my brother is driving to slums hours away just to drag you back from a drinking spree is just pitiful…”

I hold my hand up to stop her then take a moment to examine both of my hands, turning them this way and that. Then I hold them up for her to see as well. “Sorry, Mia,” I say, “but I don’t see shackles or even a chain attached to my wrist to yank on to call Christian to my side. Please give your brother some credit. I don’t control him, I never have. _I_ went out of my way to separate us. He went out of his to put us back together. It is what it is.”

“But it shouldn’t be, should it?”

“I can’t change what we are,” I tell her as I step away, shaking my head. “I don’t know what you want me to say to you, Mia.”

“He has Elena—“

“And where is she?” I interject. “Not here, not at Christian’s house, not anywhere that I’ve seen,” I say with a shrug. “So what makes her more relevant than I am?”

“Their marriage,” she spits, and core-deep I feel a thrum that rocks me. A cold surge washes over my skin, head to toe, and at the base of my chest I can feel my heart give a wintry beat. I feel…lost. Adrift. I know where I am in the literal sense, but I’ve suddenly lost my footing in this battle. Not the one with Mia, but the one with myself.

How did I come to be here? Arguing in the street with the man I love’s sister, wearing the clothes and heels that he’d bought me, at a club he brought me to…when he gave me up.

I feel like I am drowning. My lungs are tight; my breath whistles through my teeth in pathetic huffs. I am so, so cold. They question why I didn’t function without the alcohol. It was because of the burn. There is no ice in my chest when there is a 50 proof bottle to my lips.

I am staring down the street when Christian materializes, and the closer he gets to us the faster the chill spreads. I don’t want to be here. I don’t want any of this. If every other word that came out of Mia’s mouth was bullshit, there was only one that struck any semblance of truth: _weak_.

“Anastasia?” Christian calls, and seeing me just stare at him his walk turns to a jog. He reaches for me instantly, and the warmth of Christian’s hands as he touches my arms is a shock. I want it and I don’t. Always complicated with this man, everything was. And yet it was all so, so easy.

“Go home, Mia,” Christian directs, and she doesn’t even resist. She digs into her purse and has her phone in hand the next second. The Range Rover we were brought in pulls up to us within the same minute, and Taylor jumps out to help Mia into it. Grace is exiting the club when Taylor shuts the door. Christian must have had Taylor watching Mia and I since we left his sight, prepared for the very second when he could intervene. He knew exactly how this exchange would go. I am thankful. And conflicted.

Grace gives Christian and I both very long, knowing looks before hugging us goodbye, and they drive off, leaving he and I alone. He immediately hails down a cab.

Sitting in the back of the taxi with him, I can only think of all the obscenely inappropriate moments we’ve had in just the past 24 hours, and there were many of them. We carried on as if we were still together, still in love with one another…as if I hadn’t walked away from all of this, him, already.

The pain is residual; my hand goes to my stomach out of reflex. I am ashamed to find that I don’t think any of those moments wrong.

“Please talk to me, Ana,” Christian pleads, and I do not respond because I don’t know what to say. We have been in a similar place to this before, and instead of talking, I’d walked away from him. I wanted to do it again. I knew I needed to, but just the thought of separation bled me.

Without turning to him, I lift my hand to feel the man beside me. I want to assure myself that what I feel is not fiction, a mind game. I want to experience what tethers me here, my sins aside. I encounter the broad expanse of his chest, strong even beneath the cloth, and he does not move to stop me so I venture north to his smooth columned throat. Excitement pools in the pit of my stomach. I truly believe that the chemicals that this man and I are composed of are meant for he and I alone’s attraction. It is my only excuse for the thrill that ropes my senses, my conscience; it’s the only explanation of my spent morality.

I have yet to gauge Christian’s reaction, but I can hear his breathing, how deep it is. It rustles the hair spilled onto my shoulder, tickles the exposed skin of my neck. It affects me. He affects me.

My finger tips are hot when they reach his jaw, and the sharp line of it leads me to his stubbled cheek, and I go no further as his hand covers mine.

“Look at me, Ana,” he murmurs, and I jump at his nearness. He is close and I want him closer. My head falls away from him in an open invitation, and I gasp as he traces the tip of his nose up my neckline, behind my ear, and repeats himself. “Look at me, Anastasia.”

My obedience is a reward in itself. There is an avidity in his expression that melts that confounded muscle in my chest so it is bursting. He still holds my hand to his cheek, his thumb is caressing my fingers in slow strokes. I see everything I feel and more reflected in the way he looks at me. His eyes are beseeching, searching, yearning.

Hungry.

Earth reclaims me as the cab driver clears his throat at us. I’m reminded of where we are, of what brought us to be sitting in this man’s taxi instead of in the Range Rover, all at once. I would laugh if I were not mortified. The easiest part is falling into nothing with him. The hard part is clawing my way back out. I cannot even control my attraction to Christian when I want to. Where is the hope in me if I am not trying?

I almost trip I’m rushing so quick from the vehicle. I hear Christian telling the man to keep the change as I scurry up the walkway. He sprints to reach me and places his hand on the small of my back as he keeps pace with me, probably hoping I will slow or stop. I don’t care if I trip or not, I just need to put distance between us. I wait patiently for Christian to open the door but he is hesitating, trying to get me to look at him, respond to him. I do not, and my resoluteness pays off as the foyer opens up to us. I beeline for the stairs to my room.

Of course, he tries to stop me.

“Ana—“

“Thank you, Christian,” I interrupt, halted on the stairs, “for taking me out. It was lovely.” I turn somewhat awkwardly, looking down over the railing to see his pensive face. Bless him, he _wants_ to let me go. I am inwardly rooting for that part of him that resists to grow bigger, to be the winning side. He knows as well as I do we need the space.

“You’re welcome,” he sighs, and I’m not quite so enthusiastic to leave him anymore. His stance, as well as the way he sounds, is stressed. I die to comfort him as he does me. I hate the hard part. “Going to bed early?”

“Yes,” I say in exhale. “I’m tired.” And I am; it has been a very, very long day.

“Okay,” he relents, and where I should be seizing the opportunity and making myself scarce, I find myself retracing my steps, walking slowly back down the stairs, until I’ve walked straight into Christian’s warm embrace. He holds me so tight I’m sure our beings will merge, and the thought is a pleasing one. His lips are in my hair, on my forehead; mine are poised directly on his heart.

This was what sobriety meant for us, for me—the reformation of bad habits. If I latched on to one vice I could easily resist the other, but I did not know which one was worse for my health. Both would be the death of me.

I am content, at peace, when we let go of one another, and there are sappy, little smiles on both of our faces. We walk up the stairs together, hand in hand, and he kisses my knuckles as we reach the landing. He walks with me until we reach my door, and my heart squeezes as I step into the room.

“Goodnight, Christian,” I say, and I’ve not stepped away from the door when I hear the telltale rumble of his departure.

“Goodnight, Anastasia.”

  


  


  


  


  


 


	5. Chapter 5

_I spend the next few days doing absolutely nothing._

Seeing Mia and Grace was…enlightening, if a bit taxing. The reminder that Christian is not a man on the market has left me feeling a little out of place in his home. Elena has _still_ been absent, and the wondering of what the status of the two’s relationship is teems in my mind steadily.

I’ve also been keeping the fact that Mr. Grey _is_ a married man in the forefront of my mind. Where I continue not to see what he and I are to each other as a negative, I do my best to keep our interactions platonic as possible. It’s beyond a realm of what I am used to. In the past it was all of us or nothing. We’ve never been in this perpetual middle ground before.

I am chewing absent-mindedly on my thumbnail, staring straight at Christian when he pinches my chin. When I glare at him, he responds by pointing at the almost untouched plate of food in front me.

“That’s what the food is for, Ana.”

“Why haven’t I seen Elena in almost a week?” I blurt, and we’re both shocked by the random outburst. It almost sounds like a demand, and where it was unintentional, it had the right amount of fervor behind it. Why am I sitting here wracking my brain when I can get an answer from the man himself?

But he seems like he doesn’t want to answer me, and continues eating as if I haven’t said a word at all.

When we were teenagers, when Mrs. Robinson first came into our lives, he reacted the same way—with no reaction at all. It used to drive me up a wall; the hormones had been quite fresh at the time. I would ask him questions incessantly; he would ignore me. I would yell at him that she was no good for him; he would continue to go to her. I would give him the silent treatment for an hour or two; he would become a man without water.

I was far, far, _far_ from the type to deal with a cheating man, and even now I am proud to say that my ground was stood; but when we had our fallouts—of which there were many—I could find him where Elena was.

I give it a few minutes, and in that time he’s tried to engage me in multiple conversations that have nothing to do with my inquiry. So I prepare for a bit of cat-and-mouse.

“I couldn’t fathom why Grace thought bringing in Elliott, of all the people in the world, would be reassuring to me in any… Anastasia? Where are you going?”

“To the sitting room,” I casually inform him, and I’ve set the game in motion.

“You haven’t finished your food.”

“Taking it with me.” The plate is still warm as I grab it up along with my glass of pineapple juice, and I give him my back. I can imagine him floundering. I’ve just turned the television on, when he comes strolling around the corner with his plate as well. He sits right beside me, continuing to tell his story as if nothing has happened. I turn the TV up louder.

I applaud the determination he has when he continues speaking, knowing I cannot hear him, but the Christian I knew and loved was out within 60 seconds of my little show. One minute the remote control is in my hand, the next, it is not, and Christian has grabbed hold of my jaw, forcing me to look at him. He is calm on the outset, but his eyes are like raging storms in a dry season.

“Getting back into old habits, eh, Ana?” he quips.

“What, you don’t like being ignored? I thought we were going back and forth with it.”

“Cute.”

“We aim to please, Mr. Robinson,” and I know I’ve struck a chord when he releases me, even scoots over on the couch a bit. But it seems he has nothing to share, so I do not pursue. I’m ready to relocate back to the kitchen when he grabs my wrist, urging me into his lap. I miss that spot so much it burns, but I opt for the opposite side of the sofa.

“Elena and I aren’t in a great place right now.”

That goes without saying. “You didn’t answer the question.”

“I…” he stops in reluctance, worrying his hand through his hair. At this point I am a bit hesitant to keep pushing him—this really wasn’t any of my business—but I simply can’t stand feeling like ‘the other woman’; I would rather walk out the door right now than be a second choice.

“You don’t have to answer me,” I say sincerely. “I don’t have a right to pry into your marriage. But I can’t…be here, or be around you, without one. I’m sure you can guess why.”

He looks pain stricken. “Ana,” he whispers, and his hand reaches for mine, but I do not waver. He sighs heavily, exasperated. He’s retracted his hand and is sitting forward when he answers me tersely, hands folded between his widespread legs. “Elena and I are separated. We have been for months, but it’s been under wraps. We just…We aren’t what we thought we were to each other. Neither of us is what the other wants,” and when he says this, 2 and 2 click together in my head. I broach my theory subtly, with patience.

“What is it exactly that you want?”

For a heart rupturing moment, Christian turns and stares at me as if to say, “You,” but thinks better of himself as he stands to roam unhurriedly around the room. I sit on the couch arm cross-legged, watching him. He opens his mouth for a phase, then shuts it to start over again.

“Elena needs someone that…complements her. She needs someone that is her opposite. She is the talker; her partner needs to listen. She acts; he needs to enforce. She leads; he’s got to move with her, but let her be the conductor.” Christian halts his pacing to grab a bottle of wine from the wall mount. He uncorks it, forgoes a glass, and just takes a straight hit. I let him have some time to think, to mull over whatever is turning over in his mind as he stands at the window, just looking out. After some time, he’s admitted what I knew from the very beginning, what I hoped he would grasp when we were still teenagers: “I’m not what Elena wants me to be.”

There is no spite in my heart; I am not entitled or proud that I foresaw this before Christian did. Instead I find that I am overwhelmingly sad. We were inextricably linked that way I suppose; when he suffers I do too, and right now Christian is grieving. He is a man dedicated to success, to prevailing. Whether his relationship with Elena was what either of them expected it would be, he takes its outcome personally.

“And what do _you_ want, Christian?” His head turns to me quizzically. ‘What?’ he asks, and I repeat myself. “What do you want?”

He approaches me with long, paced steps, and his eyes are welded to mine. I cannot look away; I am possessed as he lowers to his knees before me, lifting my hand to place his mouth at my palm. Every word he utters penetrates my skin, thrums my blood.

“I want an equal, a partner, not someone to compete with. I want a lover, and a friend, and a confidant all bundled into one. I want her to love me unconditionally in all my sin; I want to love her savagely living in sin.” He places the whisper of a kiss in my fingers as he rises, and I am his shadow as he looks down upon me, so close the muscles of his thighs are against my knees and I can think of nothing other than tugging his opened button up between my teeth. “I would love her madly. Do you believe that, Ana?”

I nod dumbly, enraptured, and he lifts his hand to drift his fingers over my shoulder, up my neckline, until he’s shaped my skull; his fingertips knead gently in my hair and my eyes roll back of their own volition. I almost moan. I part my legs when Christian taps my outer thigh, and presses himself against me. There is a prominent knot in his jeans and lust spreads in my womb like wildfire. My blood is molten, fire, beneath my skin. It was like holding the bottom of two magnets together and trying your hardest to keep them apart.

I’ve not touched him yet. Every nerve and muscle and inch of flesh pulses within me to, but I’ve not touched him yet. And I will not.

I won’t.

“This has something to do with your bedroom practice, doesn’t it?” and the question comes out of me like a breath. Christian stills. He stares down at me, then past me; my theory hits home.

Weak-willed, I raise my hands to begin to push him away, but beyond anything it simply feels like a much needed excuse to touch him—he is barely budging. I haven’t made much progress when he grips my shoulder.

“Do you see how this looks now?” he asks huskily, chuckling. My brow arches in askance. “I’ve been throwing myself at you since you got here, and now it’s suddenly revealed that Elena and I are considering divorce?” He is laughing but there is no humor in his eyes. My boy is hurting, and he doesn’t know what to do with all of his pent up frustration. I take his scruffy, sculpted face in my hands, stroking his cheeks with my thumbs.

“You went in expecting it to be somewhat like when you were fifteen, huh?” I’ve hit the mark; sadness worries in the depths of his eyes and it tears my heart in two. “I know your… tastes, Christian. I know what she brought you into and I know you wanted the other side of that coin. I’ve seen that side, remember?”

“Too well,” he responds sorrowfully, placing one his hands over mine and bringing it to his mouth to kiss. The memory lays hot in both our minds, makes the fine hairs on my skin raise.

“Why marry her knowing that you’d clash then?” I ask, and I’m genuinely curious. What was he thinking when he went through it? He is pensive as he answers, looking away to collect his thoughts.

“I…was thinking… I don’t know what I was thinking.” He turns back to me, shaking his head minutely. “I _wasn’t_ thinking. You left me, Ana; I wasn’t thinking.”

“So you let Elena do the thinking for you,” and my statement is not accusatory or bitter, but it is true. I can see in his distraught features that I am right.

“I was…just gone, mentally, after you left, and I went to _everyone,_ anyone, before I ended up where I did, but it just became inevitable. And I was weak, and I just let her take me where ever she led me to… But I don’t blame Elena for anything. It takes two. I just… I don’t know what I expected. I fucked up so bad.”

“You expected her to help you deal with all the chaos going on in here,” I place one hand over his strong chest, “but didn’t realize the implications once you were sorted out. She knew that.”

He’s holding it all together with monumental strength on the outside, but I can feel him crumbling in my palms. He hates where he is, but he has nowhere else to go, not for quite some time.

“You’ve discussed the possibility of divorcing?” I ask delicately. Us together is in the very back of my mind right now; it’s all about soothing Christian, about mending the rift inside him.

“We have.” The statement has weight; it burdens him. With heavy movements he takes to the couch, and has no hesitation in dragging me down from the arm into his lap. I don’t resist because I don’t want to. He winds his arm around my waist as he lays his head back. “The papers are in her possession. We’ve spoken once since she received them, but she didn’t even acknowledge they existed. That was a month ago now.”

Ire boiled within me. She was a harpy, a succubus. She didn’t care how her manipulation affected Christian, only about herself. It was like that when they started their little tryst, I was far from surprised it was like that now.

“I want to meet with Elena.”

Christian’s head comes off the couch leisurely and his eyes gauge mine. A smile is creeping onto his lips, a genuine one. It lightens my zeal dramatically but is infectious.

“What?” I ask.

“I won’t let you fight my battles for me, Ana. How would that look in the newsprint?”

“I won’t be fighting for you. I simply want to talk to Elena. It has been a while.”

He’s shaking his head as he stares at me, still amused. He doesn’t believe me for a moment. “I won’t consent to it. Not for a while. I’d like to keep this nonsense between the two of us _without_ involving you, at all.” And he runs his hand through my hair as I frown. “But I think we’ve exhausted this topic for the day. I’ll be making a few calls, handling some last minute pop ups, while you finish your untouched plate of food.” He gives me a stern glare as he slides me off his lap and places said plate in my hands. I take a bite while he’s still watching to placate him. “Atta girl,” and he pinches my chin before relocating to his study.

I give it a few minutes to be sure he’s gone for a good amount of time, check to see that the study door is firmly shut, and remove the landline from its cradle, flipping through the phone book with a purpose. She pick up on the second ring.

“Elena, its Ana. Let’s meet for coffee this Saturday, my treat.”

  



	6. Chapter 6

_Well look what the wind blew in._

“Ana, honey, so nice to see you again, as always.”

“Elena.” I raise from my seat to extend my hand and she shakes it firmly. I am incapable of cultivating a lie that is even remotely true so I forgo compliments or comments altogether.

“Please, sit.” I nod to the chair across the square little table and sit as she does, jumping right to business. “I don’t want to waste either of our times so I’ll come right out with it: you need to sign those divorce papers.”

It wasn’t hard to see how Elena could hang with Christian in the business department. She was tall, chic, regal looking. Her eyes were, while heavy with makeup, hawk-like and unforgiving. She had this look about her that said she was in control of the moment. It was hardly a wonder she and Christian couldn’t have worked, atop of other things.

Elena removed the black pelt of some poor animal she was wearing, lacing her long-nailed fingers together and peering over them at me.

“Over ten years later and you still never change, Anastasia,” she says smiling, and we are both recalling a similar sit down to this one that transpired the very first and last time we’d seen one another.

“It’s a gift,” I deadpan, and I wait for her to acknowledge that I’m not here to discuss myself.

“Personally, Anastasia, I don’t feel Christian and I have been married long enough to even be considering divorce.”

“I hadn’t realized happiness was restricted to time.”

“Oh, I know, sweetie, I can tell,” she sniped. “Obviously since you two have known each other all your lives but I got the proposal.”

My eyebrow arches. The corner of my mouth twitches. “Gloating over manipulation, Elena? That’s just poor form, terrible sportsmanship.” She answers by a few flutter of her too-thick lashes. “And I was far from aware that I was looking for a ring out Christian. His affection is more than enough”

“To each, her own. To make this short, I’m not signing the papers, Anastasia, so if you would like to conclude this early…”

“Why aren’t you living in your house? In Christian’s house?” I ask fervently, rolling my half-empty coffee cup between my palms. My gaze has not wavered from Elena’s person since she stepped through the door. I should have waited to see if she was looking to order something herself, but we’re not here for a play date. I simply needed an open, public space to talk this out with her.

She shrugs one dainty shoulder, uncommitted. “Christian told me he needed space; I obliged. There isn’t much else to it?”

“So your husband asks you to leave, you’re gone for over six months, and there ‘isn’t much else to it’?”

“The men of minds is an enigma,” she says with a smile.

“Did you ever stop to think he doesn’t _want_ you there? That just doesn’t click in your head?”

She scoffs noncommittally. “Christian is fickle that way. Am I to be hurt _every_ time he lashes out and has a tantrum? Wait for him to come back and comfort me when he feels better?” Hate lashes through with me white-hot. This was why I needed a public setting; the urge to open up my cup and just toss it at her was overwhelming. But I was determined not to make a scene. My disgust for this woman was like a cancer—it would fester, I’d treat it, hold it in abeyance, not think anything of it for the longest time, and it would resurface once more just to laugh in my face. I cannot withhold the animosity from my voice any longer; I detest her.

“You’ve married him, yet you can sit here and make him out be like a child,” I seethe, shaking my head. “He’s your fucking husband and you don’t even see to comfort him when he’s hurting. You just pull out a leather whip and that’s it. But you can stand to make jokes and talk shit behind your hand when you’ve been tossed out of the house. You’re pathetic.”

“And you’re his lovesick little puppy, eating up his shit if he commands you to and running away when you can’t handle it anymore. You don’t acknowledge him for what he is, I see that now. Christian _is_ like a small child that constantly needs attention. He won’t stop crying until he gets it, and you give it to him every time. And yet I am the one being called pathetic.” She chuckles at me, sitting back in her seat cross-legged.

“Oh yes, you most definitely are. It would figure that you’d find the most interest in marrying a man you see as a child,” I laugh. “I’m not the only who hasn’t changed with time.”

She is no longer amused, and her eyes dart cautiously around the room before narrowing on me. “Weigh your words carefully, girl.”

“Are you afraid,” I ask confidently, “that someone will hear about what you really are under all that pride, makeup and leather? Does it make you nervous thinking that someone could discover you’re a manipulative pedophile that preys on boys half your age?”

“I said watch yourself.” Her voice is low, hostile, but if she was going for threatening I got the opposite—she was afraid.

“You need to sign those papers, Elena,” I inform her once more, and the self-assurance that she walked in here with was nowhere to be seen.

“You think you have the manpower to blackmail me, girl?”

“I think I have incentive for you to reconsider your stance on yours and Christian’s divorce,” I say firmly. I stood from my chair, taking a step back from the table and giving Mrs. Robinson a leveled look. “Hopefully, this will be the last time we ever have to set eyes on each other again, and I can happily give you a month before I take any action against you. I wouldn’t hesitate, in your position.”

“You think yourself so clever, girl. But you’ll see your repercussions sooner than later.” She stood from her seat as well, tossing daggers with only her glare. “I do so hope I never have to be sat in the same room with you again, but do remember… I have eyes and ears everywhere, Anastasia.”

My grin is uncontained. “I have the only pair of eyes that matter Elena.”

“I’m married to them,” she says spitefully.

“Not for much longer,” I smile, and there is venom in her eyes as she click-clacks her way out of the coffee shop.

I am ready to do a jig of victory as I toss out the remnants of my coffee but I know I have a few loose threads to tie before I can return to Christian. I fish the bulky prepaid cellphone from my pocket and wait as it dials my contact.

“Hiyya, Taylor. Yeah, I’m fine, just out for coffee. Hey, could you do me a big favor and get in contact with José Rodriguez and Christian’s dad, Carrick? I need a few favors.”

  



	7. Chapter 7

_I should have known I wasn’t near as sneaky as I imagined myself to be._

Christian is standing across the room as I creep through the front entrance. His back is leaned against the door to his study and his gorgeous gray eyes are pinning me to the spot where I am. I do my best impression of a deer in headlights as he speaks.

“Anastasia. Did you enjoy your day out?”

“Christian.” I give myself a moment of recompose as I close the door, doing tiny huffs of breath while he has my back and putting on my best front when I’ve turned around again. “I did; went to a coffee shop with a friend. How was your day?”

“Since when was Elena classed as a friend?” he asks, and I can feel my skin prickle with the warning of a sweat as he strides smoothly, slowly towards me. He’s mouthwatering in his partly buttoned up shirt and black slim-fit casuals. I want to run from him and climb him in the same breath.

“Since today, apparently.” It is so hard to appear casual. I’m fidgeting with my hair and smoothing the fabric on my stomach and shifting from foot to foot restlessly, and he’s cataloguing all of this, coming ever closer. “We had a…pleasant time.”

He nods coolly, and his eyes haven’t left mine in ages. “I’m not calling you a liar, Anastasia, but…”

“Good, because I’m not a liar. It was pleasant.” For me.

“You look nervous,” he notes.

“Do I?”

“Something you’d like to share, Ana?”

“Not particularly, no. You?”

“Yes, actually.” He stops about a foot away from me, so leisurely and casual it puts me even further deep into the state I am in. With the beckoning of his fingers I come a bit closer, and he undoes the hooks of my duffle coat unhurriedly, holding my gaze. He’s pushing it off of my shoulders as he mentions, “I got a call not too long ago.”

“Oh?” I offer, and I’m wiping my forehead lightning-quick onto the sleeve of my sweater as he turns around to do away with my coat. I believe I pull off my smile well when he returns, but I’m swept off my feet in a blur, thrown over Christian’s shoulder, and he’s trotting up the stairs despite my loud threats and angry kicks. We are in his bedroom when he decides to release me.

“What the hell, Christian? I could have walk—“

I’m silenced by his thumb fastening to my mouth, and my eyes are wide as moons as he begins pulling the rest of his shirt open, one-handed. “Hush,” he dictates, and in the back of my mind I’m thinking I don’t have much say in the matter, if I were to say anything at all anyway.

“What you might be thinking will be happing, Anastasia, won’t,” he promises, freeing my mouth, and I’m only just a tad bit saddened by this. “I want to show you something.”

I cannot remotely fathom what this is about. I thought for sure he was going to lay into me about meeting with Elena but apparently, that isn’t the case. I am lost.

It is somewhat counterproductive, me watching Christian undress as I try to wrack my brain of what is going on. He’s being very shifty, and I can’t get a handle of what he’s playing at. But he’s also unzipping his casuals, doing away with his button-up, toe-ing off his shoes, flexing every delicious line of his torso as he removes his undershirt… _Stop. Look anywhere else, god’s sake._

“I could have sat outside while you were undressing, ya know.”

“Why would you do that?” Jeez, I’m trying to practice restraint here. “There, all done. Get on the bed.”

Is he taking the piss?

I’m staring at his perfect back, quizzically, as he removes his laptop from its tote and tosses it onto the bed. He follows suit, then arches his brow at me as I hesitate. After a moment, he offers me his hand. I take it only to be yanked down onto the bed beside him, and he wraps his arm around me, folding me into his side as he types information into his laptop.

 _Oh…_ I feel like my eyes would cross if I wasn’t more alert. His scent is dizzying; mixed with the warmth and solidness of his body… and he is half naked! I cannot resist just furtively nudging his neck, his shoulder with the tip of my nose. I wriggle around a bit to make it seem as if I’m struggling to get comfortable but I am sure my face conveys nothing less than nirvana.

“Relax, Ana,” he says, and he pulls us so close together I feel a bit smooshed, in the good way. My hand finds itself laid on his chest as his lips sift through my hair absently, only I am quite conscious of everything. They do not cross, but my eyes most certainly roll when his mouth falls to my ear. I have not looked to his face, so I cannot be sure if he is teasing me on purpose. Knowing him though, it would not be unlikely.

“Look,” he murmurs, and I peer sideways at his laptop. It’s an email from his assistant.

“What is it?”

“Read it.” My belly is twisting and surging with his tone alone, but as I skim through the document line by line, it’s doing somersaults. I am riveted to the second to last line of the page:

I will leave attach copy of Elena’s signature for you to print for your records.

“She signed.” Although I knew it would happen eventually, I am breathless; I hadn’t expected eventually to be so soon. I am jubilant to the depths of my being, but not all of me wants to participate in the celebration. She’d given up too easily.

What is Elena playing at? What’s the catch?

“I don’t know what you said to her, but I have no words.” The hum of Christian’s voice is so titillating, so distracting, I cannot fully commit to my thoughts; they aren’t reliable. It’s low, seductive, and exciting. I am almost in a trance as he lifts himself up and lays me down beneath him, supporting his weight on his forearms and hovering above me, so close I can hear his breathing.

“She signed,” I say again, and I can’t think of anything else so I say it once more. “She actually signed.”

“You’re a miracle worker, Anastasia.” Christian gives my neck a sharp, playful bite that reawakes all of my senses. My body is shocked in an instant; I’ve found the energy to push him off of me so I can at the very least see his face. He’s ready to move much, much too fast.

“Christian, her signing the petition is only step one,” I inform his confused expression. “The fact that her name is on a piece of paper does not mean you are suddenly divorced to her.”

“I am quite aware of that,” he says, appeasing me, then his voice drops to a whisper, “but it’s one step back to _us_. I’ve been waiting so, so long.”

“I know,” I breathe. I’ve been waiting just as long. I reach out to curl my fingers into his on the bed, and I submit to the power of Christian’s eyes as exhilaration vibrates the surface of my skin. There was so much time to make up, so many things needed to be said—I might have been glowing.

And time stops just for me as he begins to lower himself, as I read his intentions. I watch every centimeter of distance be overcame before it happens, but I am still frozen as Christian grazes my lips with his, one gentle, slow brush of our mouths together. My lower muscles clench so tightly it registers in my toes. I am floating, aching as he pulls back to gaze at me.

“Move in with me,” he says earnestly, and his voice is so low it’s almost a purr. I don’t have to think about my answer.

“’Kay.”

“Brilliant.” He’s beaming, and suddenly the smile falters, and he looks at me now contritely. His fingers squeeze mine a moment as he answers my puzzled expression with, “I’ll have my assistant handle all of your paperwork and contact memoranda tomorrow, but there’s just one thing I’ll need from you.”

“Anything.” Immediately I know I’ve responded too quickly, and he does too. He smiles remorsefully.

“We need to go back to your house, Ana.” I feel my heart plummet into the recesses of my stomach.

Why was it never easy?

  



	8. Chapter 8

_It’s almost as if we are trespassing, returning to this place again. Home. What an alien word._

“You need to learn to lock your door,” Christian chides from behind me, nearly pushing me into the house. “Who knows who could have come in while you were gone?”

“Nobody’s fucking stupid enough to step foot in here,” I mutter to myself, skirting around the furniture that remained untouched, preserved, since I last saw it all.

“Where I do agree it is a bit musty in here, I think you’re over exaggerating.” He comes up just behind me, putting one arm around me to rest his hand on my waist. “Hey,” he calls gently, and I pause my nervous perusal to meet his gaze. “You’re okay, Ana. I’m right here. Always have been.”

I place a hand over his and give him a tight smile. I know my demons are strong when even Christian can’t reassure me.

“Let’s try to just get this over with, yeah?”

“Yeah.” He kisses my forehead lightly, and leads us further into the house. The smell is…familiar, faint, but a long way past faded by now. It’s a contemporary home, nothing out of the ordinary, but naturally, there are a few pieces from my memory that are missing from the space.

The old 20-inch television set is still here, the taupe sofa, the plain mint green circular rug on the floor. But the coffee table is gone. The tall standing lamp is, too. I look into the next room but I can’t really see with the tears brimming. I hate it in this house. Everything feels heavy, dark; haunted.

I don’t believe in ghosts—to a degree. I don’t see any authenticity in the physical manifestation of them, but the emotional presence? I sense that. Only here, though. Only in this place. _Home_.

“You don’t need the any of the general stuff—clothes, jewelry, makeup, whatever. None of that. We can make a run for those when we finish this. Just get the essentials. Your records, any important documents, keepsakes. We can be in and out without a worry, okay?”

I mutter a “’Kay,” and I turn from the darkness of the sitting room to the kitchen, rifling straight through the cabinets and cupboards for anything worth keeping.

I’m packing anything of worth into my travel tote when a shiver runs up my spine.

THUD.

I freeze in place, my eyes immediately finding the spot overhead where the noise sounds. I don’t ask a meaningless question like “What was that?” I don’t give a fuck what it is, I just want to be gone. It’s not enough that I am already very far past uncomfortable here, but there was something else to deal with as well?

It’s as if he’s activated a switch; Christian is instantly alert, striding to my side in side, confident steps, peeking behind all corners and taking me by the wrist with him. “You don’t have pets do you? No, that was foolish of me to ask. They’d be dead by now.”

THUD.

THUD.

He looks where my eyes are and releases me, taking a few steps towards the staircase off the side to the kitchen. “What the fuck is going on up there?” he mumbles, turning as he keeps his gaze locked on the ceiling. “You think somebody got in?”

“Christian, can we please go? “My voice cracks at the end of my inquiry and that fully catches his attention. He comes back to put his hands on my arms and another bang comes from upstairs. I’m just barely containing myself at this point, but the tiny quivers rolling up and through my wrists to my fingertips is sign enough that I am about to lose it.

“Look at me. Ana, you’re fine. It’s okay. Go outside and wait in the car,” he says, pulling his keys from his pocket and into my hand. “Go on, I’ll be right out.”

I almost open my mouth to stop him but the sudden crushing pressure that covers my jaw and squeezes my lungs halts me, cripples me. It feels as if there are dozens of lead balls in each of the sockets of my arms causing my shoulders to droop, and an immeasurable worth of weights are tied to my ankles, shackling me to the floor. My vision is blurred by the brimming of tears and I am practically croaking with disconcert. I cannot see. I cannot move.

But I can hear the silence. The momentum of where I am, of what’s happened here, hits me like a stone to the ribcage. The uneasy looks, the restlessness, the realization, the blood…

I am in pain.

* * *

“C’mere. C’mere, baby. I got you. I’m right here.”

I feel like I’m suffocating. Like I’m drowning. I am choking, blinded by my tears, my throat is being ripped by my ferocious sobs. My heart is pumping so thunderously it physically hurts. I am in Christian’s arms, jostling about, and I can _feel_ the moment my body has crossed the threshold of the house. It is like a shock to the system, how the air pumps through my veins, how it feels to be free of despair.

* * *

“I want to be a part of your lifestyle.”

If Christian is at all surprised by my words, he does not show it besides the clench of his grip on the steering wheel, but I believe he has come to expect this by now. Just moments before the words had surfaced he was looking over constantly, telling me I was alright, comforting me.

But there was nothing now. He did not look over, he did not say a word. My declaration hung in the air between us. I needed to know what he was thinking.

“I’ll call Taylor the second we’re in,” he announces instead. “He’ll check out your place. I’m sure it was just raccoons or rats or squirrels, but it’s safer to have him or an exterminator come out before we go scavenging around in there and find out for ourselves.”

“So you’re just going to pretend I haven’t spoken.”

“Ana,” he sighs, and I am affronted. “Now is hardly the time.”

“When is?”

“Not now.”

“Fine.” I sniff, glaring at him as I clean my face. “Whatever. I’ll learn about it on my time.”

“Anastasia, I know you aren’t in the best of ways right now, but I want you stop and think over your words before you say them.” I could laugh. I’ve agitated him.

“You're so quick to flip the tables when it’s not you.”

“You shouldn’t be looking for a fight right now.”

“Then stop giving me a reason to want one.”

“I’ve said no already, Ana.”

In the matter of a few words my temper is gone. I explode. “ _Why_? Why is it okay for you to run to this ‘safe haven’ practice when it’s convenient for you, but snub me when I want to do the same? You can go out and fuck whoever holds up a riding crop to you, even marry them despite that they’re sick in the fucking head, but I can’t even _consider_ getting into it? Fuck you, Christian.” He’s angry now, the expression he has probably matches mine. His jaw has a tic that just doesn’t quit and his grip on the wheel is white-knuckled. “I’m an adult,” I finish. “I don’t need your approval on this.”

“You want this with me, right? Then yeah, you _do_ need my approval. No.” I’ve only just noticed that he’s pulled up to his house, and as he pulls the keys from the ignition, looks straight into my eyes, his face in a bit of contempt and repeats, “No.”

He’s driven off again after opening the door for me, and it’s good that he’s not gone a moment later because I break down right there in the foyer.

* * *

Christian has been gone for three hours. I don’t know what he’s gone to do, he hadn’t said.

Regardless, I have been left with my thoughts, and in hindsight, I could not pinpoint what set me off a few hours ago. I’d never wanted to step foot in that house from the get-go. I thought I could make the trip as detached and impersonal as I possibly could when we got in, but the second we heard the noises my efforts went out the back door. I wasn’t fearful of whether the noises came from squatters—animal or otherwise. I couldn’t have cared if they were the product of “ghosts” either. It was the barrage of emotion I caught that brought me to my knees. The second I couldn’t have severed myself psychologically from the going on’s of that house I was done for.

I can only reason that what happened was the result of a chain of stress that piled too high. It was just the weight of one thing combined with another combined with another, until it all just came toppling down on top of me.

But I had been genuine when I told Christian I wanted to know more about the lifestyle he’d had with Elena: BDSM. It was…a sensitive subject, between the two of us. Our history was very shaky with it, more so than anything else in our pasts. It ripped us apart countless times, and yet he would always go back to it.

I had my vices, my compulsions and sins. Everything I did seemed worse than the last temporary fix, but Christian was consistent with his. It was reasonable that he thought I’d come to the conclusion of “Can’t beat ‘em, join ‘em” in the heat of the moment, but this was something that laid in the back of my mind since our last, most recent lengthy separation. I was determined to show him that I was serious about it. I didn’t want to go spiraling back into a bottle of vodka, and I’m sure he didn’t want that for me either. I would do everything I could to get him to understand me, to grasp that I needed something from his world to keep me glued to him.

I hate being alone.

* * *

I am staring out the window in the living room when Christian returns. I have been here for a while, since before the sun had set, and neglected to turn on a light once it got dark. The white and black static of the television keeps the room alight. I freeze up when I hear the door shut, but will myself to calm with a few deep breaths. I wanted this.

I do not hear him, but I can feel his footsteps behind me. His every movement resonates within me, vibrates the soles of my feet. He’s so close I would swear I could feel his warmth bounce off of me, but far enough away that I can feel his absence.

“I know what I want, Christian,” I say, and the air is tainted by my voice. There is a fissure, a rupture, in the corner of the room now; it’s where I am standing.

“And what’s that, Anastasia?”

“You.” The word leaves me in the same breath that he reaches out to me. He’s just beside me, my shoulder is just grazing his chest and his fingers are stroking the outline of my clavicle, barely the whispers of a touch.

“Is that right?”

“Please, Christian.” I am not ashamed to beg. Anything is better than the pain of remembering, whether the burn of pure vodka down my gullet or the scorch of his whips on my skin, I don’t care.

“No, Ana.” His touch is more prominent now; his one finger has multiplied by two, then three and he is caressing my throat lovingly with the whole of his hand. “No.”

“You don’t seem so sure of yourself about that,” I challenge, and this confidence is a product of sheer determination.

“Oh, but I am,” he counters silkily, and his body shifts so he is now behind me, his first hand joined by the second, and my throat is now securely encircled. I do not panic my breathing spikes. It is an autonomous reaction, one that belies what I am working towards. Christian breathes a chuckle.

“I am sure of myself, because I know you aren’t.” His lips tickle my ear, his hands curl just a bit tighter. “This is not a game of hot and cold, Ana. This is very serious.” With the firm press of his thumb on my jaw he turns my head and I meet his warm, liquescent gaze. My breath hitches as his front meets my back, and a shiver rolls through me as his hips surge ever so faintly into my backside. Lust is heavy in his eyes. “Where your pleasure means everything and more, this, what you’re asking of me, is about safety; trust. Consent.”

“I know.” But he isn’t hearing me. He dusts a kiss on my temple, my forehead, my cheek all the while having full control of how and when my head and neck turn. As his lips traverse their path, his rocks into my backside come faster, more demanding. His breathing is _just_ disturbed. It is the faintest hint of being ragged, and my sex pulses and swells with the tension we are raveled in. My hips sway slightly to the pace that he has set, of his thrusts and breaths and kisses, and I begin to pant. I’m warm all over. I yearn for more of his touch, everywhere, but as if he can read my mind, he denies me, begins to pull away. His grasp on me is loose now and I am free to turn fully towards him.

“You say you consent, and yet there’s something in the way you’re looking at me that does not: fear. I would never, ever, hurt you, Anastasia. Never again. As long as you look at me the way that you do, what you’re asking of me will never happen, you have my word. I won’t lose you again, Ana. Not for this, not for anything in my power.”

“It won’t be like last time,” I assure him, and he doesn’t buy it.

“Don’t make promises you can’t keep.” He is unwavering in his resoluteness, and the fire I’d taken hours to build up is extinguished. I take one step, then another until our chests align. He’s searching deeply within my eyes for why I want this so badly so I pour it out for him. Tears flow freely down my cheeks. I vow to myself that I will not be torn up about one rejection if he takes me up on the other. I only needed him.

“Take me, then,” I whisper. “No whips, no chains, no safe words—just you and me. Make me forget.”

“He lowers so the tip of his nose skims mine, his thumbs are on my cheeks, wiping away the moisture before his lips touch either, and he looks me in my eyes as I crumple from the inside out. “Let’s go to bed, Ana.”

I cannot go on like this much longer.

 


	9. Chapter 9

It’s not been a total 24 hours yet and I heavily regret deciding to move in with him.

I am in Christian’s room, and the alarm clock on his nightstand reads that it is a bit past noon. My mind is too clear, too aware to have only just woken up. That foggy, muddy feeling that I hated having in the morning was sorely missed at this moment. I peer to my side, and Christian is sleeping on his front, face turned towards me. He’s such a sight; his hair is tousled with sleep and his supple mouth is open for his low snores to pour out. From his dress, I surmise that he’s already been up and handled what he needed to for today. He must’ve come back for an afternoon snooze.

I almost reach out to touch him. The memory reel of yesterday’s events stop me.

I let my head fall back against its pillow and sigh as I stare at the ceiling.

God, it was all so much easier when the day was filled with a beer, talking up strangers, and passing out. Not the healthiest, but I can’t imagine that all of this daily angst is good for my heart, in itself. Most certainly though, it’s all quite…draining, to watch play out. It’ll be the death of me if I stand for it. At this moment, in this space, I resolve not to be on the offensive or defensive team. There’s no plotting or thinking ahead. I just want to relax. I just want some peace.

My stomach retrieves me from my suspension of time. I’m ravenous. When my vision has refocused I peer once more at the clock, then turn to check on Christian, and our gazes lock. Clouds of sleep reflect the sun’s glare in his eyes, and the longer we observe one another the clearer they become. He flits back and forth between my eyes, scans over my mouth and chin and forehead. The day’s only just started and he’s trying to probe my mind.

“Christian,” I mumble in greeting.

“Anastasia.”

“Did I wake you?”

He shakes his head, gaze steady.

“How was work?”

His eyebrow juts up a moment before he replies, “No work today.”

I finger the sleeve of his button down with an, “Oh?” His arm comes out from beneath him to snake across me, trapping me as he works himself closer to me in the bed. He stays laid on his front.

“I’ve been out, but not worked.” A gust of air tickles my neck as he exhales. “How did you sleep?”

“Fine. I was just getting up.”

“Wanna go somewhere?” At my curious expression he amends with, “For brunch.”

“No, I think I’ll make it on a bagel and coffee.”

It’s slight but he seems somewhat surprised by my answer. “Just a bagel?”

“And coffee.”

“Huh.” I start to extract myself from under Christian and get out of bed when it hits me why he’s being so observational. I pause on the edge and turn back to him. He’s still staring.

“You do realize,” I say, “I can’t get to where there is alcohol in your house, right?”

“I do,” he nods somberly. From the way he is looking at me I wouldn’t be surprised if he thought I could conjure up my own vodka with nothing but willpower and determination.

I give him my back again as I go to his closet, taking one of his dress shirts and slipping my arms through. As if the sun is setting rapidly to my front, I sense the presence of Christian rise behind me like a shadow. I can feel him towering over me, looking me over, and I turn to see just that. His shirt is loose and marred with wrinkles from his nap, hair strewn wherever, however. His scrutiny has not lightened by even a smidgeon. It is a bit irritating.

“I’m gonna go down for breakfast now,” I announce, sounding as awkward as I feel. “Join me if you want.”

As alien as the notion is, I’m actually hoping he won’t; he does anyway.

I pay Christian very few glances as I prepare breakfast. Like an animal studying its prey I can feel his gaze penetrate me to the bone. My innate fight-or-flight instincts conflict with my attempts to appear casual, and I’m fidgeting. Christian’s entire countenance is a one-way mirror, and I’ve had enough.

I calmly place the butter knife on the countertop and stop to reciprocate his stare. My stomach protests and rumbles for the cream cheese and jelly mixture before me but I can’t eat while he eyes me down. I would lose my appetite before I even started. Christian’s mouth twitches when my message is properly conveyed. Finally.

“Are you not going to eat?” he asks.

“Is there something on your mind, Christian?”

He smiles just a bit. “I was hoping we could discuss it while you ate.”

“I was hoping I could eat without you gawking at me.”

“We need to work out a compromise,” he states simply.

Oh,” I respond. I’m not sure what this means or why this necessitated his vigilant behavior. I can guess what this is about but I can’t get a handle on where he is steering us. “A compromise for what, exactly?”

He opens his mouth to explain, but closes it again as his eyes flicker to my untouched bagel. He points at it as he says, “You take that into the sitting room, start eating; I’ll bring the coffee out to you, and we’ll talk.”

“Then you can be less creepy?” His answering grin dissolves some of the tension from my shoulders.

“Then I can be less creepy.”

I am halfway through my meal when he joins me on the giant sofa.

“I want to walk you through my lifestyle.”

His timing, honestly, could not have been any better if he orchestrated it himself. I have only just put my mouth to the rim of the mug as he says this, but a second later and this perfectly made cup of joe would have been all over the sofa.

I stammer out, “Run that by me again,” as I wipe the bit of dribble that’s slid down my chin. I’m so sexy, I don’t know how he’s even able to begin this conversation with me right now.

“You said you wanted to know more; I want to show you what you think want.”

I eye him critically, my skepticism scarcely contained. “Now, what are you going to get from this?”

He shrugs. “An end, hopefully. We’ve been down this route before and, obviously, the lesson has not stuck.”

“So you’re doing this purely to prove me wrong?”

His expression wavers for a moment to reveal a bit of compassion. “No, Ana, I’m not that cruel. I’m doing this because you want to, and I’m helpless to deny you this, if you really want to try. Hell, deep down I want this, too. I thought we’d lost whatever it was we unearthed all that time ago, but it’s eating me inside to think it’s still there and I’m discounting it.”

“Ah,” I sigh. “So you’re being selfish.”

He smiles sheepishly and leans back on the sofa, putting his arm around the back. “Helplessly, as always.”

I mirror his pose and nibble on my thumbnail as I think through. After all my big talk last night, I was feeling no small amount of trepidation now. I hadn’t really thought he would call me out on my bravery, least of all on the next day. “So when do we start?”

His head tilts forward slightly. “I was actually hoping we could enjoy some normal time together first, if that’s okay with you.”

“Yes,” I breathe. “I’d like that.”

“But you seem nervous.”

I shrug, feigning nonchalance. “Just a bit.”

“Right now, it’s just you and me. No expectations, no worries.”

“But most importantly,” I jab, “there’s no booze.”

Christian’s lip turns up a bit in quiet defiance. “You don’t need that garbage to make you happy, Ana.”

I shake my head, skimming over words that ache in my chest but hold the truths we’re both thinking. “I don’t want it right now.”

“My mission,” he declares confidently, inching closer on the sofa and entangling our fingers behind the couch, “is to help you not to want it ever again.”

I laugh, rolling my eyes. “Even you have a casual drink now and again, Christian.”

“I do. But I can take it or leave it.”

“We’ll work on it.”

* * *

 

_With Sincerity, Yours_

 

* * *

“There’s only two so far, Ana. I expect you to get them correct.”

“Okay, okay. Lay it on me.”

“Yellow.”

“Caution—slow it down.”

“Red.”

“Stop—too intense. Winners of ‘The Most Drab Names Ever’ awards.”

“Excuse me?”

“I don’t know; the terms seem so…textbook. Like you’ve grabbed them straight from a rule book.”

“Rules are meant to be followed, Anastasia. Especially when they are made for your safety.”

“Yeah, and I get that, I do. But, how about names that are a bit…sexier.”

“Oh? Please, I’m interested in your suggestions.”

I cough out a single, nervous chuckle, fingering the rim of my hard lemonade. We’ve been out since the early afternoon but the sun is setting an intense ochre against the city’s skyline, reflecting off the tumbler between my palms onto the glass divider beside me. Sitting at this tiny round table, overlooking the bustle of the streets below as the day crowd shifts to the night prowlers, I feel at ease.

The day has snuck by so rapidly. We’ve gone to the park, seen an animated matinee, and had a not so fancy dinner, where Christian was benevolent enough to allow me my light alcoholic drink. Up until this very moment, I’d completely forgotten what the distraction of this outing was meant to be. As the seconds tick by, as the cognizance of what is meant to follow this lovely evening pervades my mind, a stem of dread tickles my belly, strokes my nerves. I go from content to edgy in the space of a breath of wind.

I know he can sense it on me, this tension, immediate as it is. What must he wonder is on my mind? The concept of this compromise? Or perhaps the finer details of it: the act. Truthfully, yes, it was a bit of both. Moreover, it is what this would do to us, to our relationship with one another. We’ve been here before, discussed these very things, exchanged a similar banter. But we were younger, new to the heat of our kindling. It was wishful, fanciful, to believe that we would come out of this conciliation satisfied on both sides.

Certainly though, it is worth a try. Does he feel the same?

I think to ask but am met by the warm expectation in Christian’s eyes as I turn to him. He is awaiting an answer.

I purse my lips a moment, then blow a huff of air as I blurt the first thing to come to mind. “Firetruck red?”

I wish I could seal the look he gives me into the depths of my memory; to have till my dying days. It is priceless, carefree. Beautiful. “Firetruck red? You want the phrase that dictates our bedroom limits to be firetruck red, Ana?”

“Are you telling me you can come up with something better?”

“Surely not any other emergency services, but yes, I probably could.”

“You ass. Go on then, do me one better.”

“Another time.” He peeks at his phone concealed in his pocket and begins to stand. “We should be going.”

I can feel the thrum of my heart beneath my tongue, in my throat. “Somewhere you need to be, Mr. Grey?” I was merely sipping at it before, but I am practically gulping down my drink now.

“Yes—home. Preferably out of the cold. Enough of that.” He silences my meek protests as he wrestles the glass from my hand. It’s still half full and I most definitely need the courage.

“Wow, moneybags. That’s $7 I’m missing out on.”

“Not that you need to worry about the cost of it,” he responds dismissively, paying me no mind as he sifts through his wallet to foot our bill. “You’ve had more than your share.”

 _Not nearly enough_.

If I’d not kept up my pout the entire ride back to the house I would have been a nervy, bouncing mess. This was…terrifying. Disconcerting. Nerve wracking…

Exciting.

Intriguing.

Electrifying.

As I press my back to the door and we stand in the dimly lit foyer, several feet apart, simply watching each other across the way, all of these sensations burrow womb-deep and flourish. It is so intense it brings my breath in quiet whistles.

I often find it difficult to remember that there are too many thoughts that don’t hold a flame to the reality. Everything between us is a feeling multiplied by ten. But somehow, I am blindsided every time, left in a state that broadcasts what I am not brave enough to say.

_Take me._

  


  



	10. Chapter 10

_Take me._

I am not given even a moment to prepare as Christian takes the furious, sweeping steps that encumber the distance between us. There is the brusque grip of being forced close up against him, and the chilling cool of his palm cupping my neck. I stare up into the eyes of a storm but a second before they descend upon me. The soft, fullness of Christian’s mouth meets my own feverishly, demanding, and everything becomes instinctive.

The familiarity of Christian’s kiss, warm and coaxing, would never be lost to me. I weave my fingers into the short curls of his hair, and the sweet aroma of a vodka and cranberry billows over me, colors my palette as his tongue meets mine. I press our fronts so closely together that he towers above me. My body aches and calls for him at a frequency that he knows all too well.

As if we’ve practiced a million times, my coat and his disappear without a single fumble. His button down has vanished as well, and my eyes are riveted to the perfect planes presented to me. I give a shaky exhale as Christian’s nimble fingers start to undo his trousers. My attention is seized only by a low reverb emanating from his chest. I only guess what he sees as I am backed up against the wall.

“This lip,” he rumbles, and I realize how it is so tightly fastened between my teeth, almost to the point of swelling. His tongue reaches out to stroke along the length of my bottom lip, then slowly sweeps across the top one before plunging deeply into my mouth once more. The wicked thrust of Christian’s hips draws a cry out of me, one he instantly swallows as his hands descend to my waist, my hips, the curve of my bottom. He grips the back of my thighs firmly as he lifts me up to wrap my legs around him, maintaining his steady, assaulting kiss. My sex, although restricted by our layers of clothing, pulses wildly and hot for him. The muscles clench and squeeze at what is not there, at what should be. I can only think of how much I need Christian inside me.

So I am disheartened, doused in ice cold water, when I look up into Christian’s eyes to see nothing short of wariness. It is disorienting, being pulled out of my lust drive to hover somewhere between it, and a state of mildly hurt feelings. I do not know what to do with this combination of being addled and confused.

My embarrassment is rolling off of me in waves, and I calmly try to pry myself from Christian’s hold when he takes hold of my jaw, pressing his thumb firmly to my lips when I protest. The shadows of mortification rise upon me swiftly and mercilessly. I am ashamed to be on the verge of crying.

“Why, Ana?”

I give him a look of venom as the tears begin to roll down my cheeks. “Are you asking me why I’m crying?” I muster scathingly, disbelievingly. I could smack him.

“No. I’m asking why you want this.”

“So you figure that the most appropriate timing to ask this is while I’m straddling your half naked body.”

“I figure the best time to ask is before we get into something that you are not fully prepared for,” he asserts, his expression grave. “Look at me, Ana.” I lean my back against the wall when his hands come up to cradle my jaw. He is so devastatingly handsome it makes my heart ache even more. “No tears. You already have me, you blind, stubborn thing. I’m not going anywhere.” His thumbs skate along the wet tracks on my cheeks, clearing them with slow strokes. It’s almost therapeutic. “What we’re doing won’t be going anywhere, either, without your explicit permission. There is no rush for this, Ana. We are what you want us to be.”

He leans in close to skim his nose across mine, and I lean in just that small amount more so our lips brush. I feel his mouth curve with a grin before he pushes a bit closer, adds more pressure. I sigh as he pulls away. I loved to complain how it was never easy for us, while simultaneously piling more shit on top of what was already there.

Christian tilts his head as he lifts his eyebrows, prompting a response.

“I’m not ready,” I moan, and my head falls to the side for his hand to cradle. Unsurprisingly, that seems to be the answer that he had already come to expect. Any other night I would love to prove him wrong.

“That’s fine. We have plenty of other things to do.” I hear it before I feel it—Christian releases my face, jostles me up with a stir and slaps his hands to my ass, smiling at my shock as he carries me away from the foyer.

“And by other things, I sincerely hope you aren’t meaning a repeat of _that_.”

“Come off it; I know you liked it.”

I definitely did. “What other things?” I ask.

“We never fully fleshed out exactly what this compromise was meant to be. I would like to do that now, if you don’t mind.”

“No, I don’t mind?” It unintentionally comes out sounding like a question. “But, I thought me learning your life _was_ the compromise.”

I was negligent paying any attention to where he led us, and as a result I look around Christian’s room a bit stupefied as he deposits me on his bed.

“I don’t believe we discussed what my terms were. It would be nice that I am getting an equal amount of reward out of this,” he says shaking his head, giving me his back.

Conveying my most outraged look, I ball my fists on my hips. “And I suppose that means that I am not the equal payment to you that you are to me?”

“Oh, please, Steele.” He laughs as he sifts through his dressing cabinets. After collecting a few pieces on his arm, he tosses them at me. It’s a plain tee and boxers. “Change. Feel free to head back to your room if there’s anything you want to bring over, but you’ll be sleeping here tonight. I need a shower.”

I say, “I could get my own clothes then,” as I begin to stand, but Christian sidles up to me in such a blunt, daunting way that I almost fall backwards. He grips my arms firmly, steadying me, and with a much gentler touch his fingers skate their descent on my forearms, over my fingers, down to the curves of my hips. In that silent, mutual electricity that binds us, our bodies arch and gravitate with such ease it feels as if I’ve not moved at all. But his head is bent towards me, breath fanning across my dewed skin, and he’s looking down at me with such intensity my muscles quake.

“I much prefer the way you look in my clothes.” Absentmindedly my lip disappears between my teeth at his honeyed purr. In the forefront of my mind is nothing but how gorgeous Christian is, tonight and every other day I’ve known him; but in the very back of my mind I am restless with the anticipation that he will kiss me again. I have not fully come to the decision that I’m not ready to take what we’re doing one step further. I just need that one little push…

“Change,” he whispers, pinching my thigh. I must look ever the petulant child as he steps away from me with a wink.

15 minutes later and we have made forts on either side of Christian’s enormous bed. I’ve raided every cabinet, cupboard and closet for as many pillows as I could find and am very pleased with our opposing enclosures. He is sprawled across his side of the bed, laid on his side with his head in his hand, watching me with reticent eyes. His black pajama bottoms are flowy and comfy looking, and he is once again bare-chested; I am both used to it, and not. It didn’t matter how many times you witnessed perfection—it took your breath every time.

I am sat cross-legged in his tee and boxers with a pillow between my legs, and, thankfully, bra-less. I could only be more relaxed with a strong glass of wine in my hand. Worn from the day as I am, it is still much too early in the night to call in, sadly. Something tells me that the coming discussion is one I would prefer to skip out on, one the wine would be welcome with.

“What’s with the smirk, Grey?”

“You look worried.”

“Just wondering when you’ll let me to be a big girl again and allow me to drink when I please.”

His eyes narrow for a fraction of a second before returning to neutral. He is going out of his way to appear casual. Why?

“If you drank when you pleased, you wouldn’t really be all here, now would you? Unfortunately for you, I need all of you here tonight.”

At his words I can feel the blood drain from my face, a draft pass over my skin. Nervous no longer covers it.

“There it is,” he murmurs, tilting his head forward, holding my gaze. “That look that says you know exactly what happens next.”

“Christian,” I start, and I have no words to follow. My heart is beating in such a way it feels to go a mile a minute, but so slow I should be concerned. I can hear it behind my ears, feel it beneath my fingertips. What purpose did he have to start something like this?

“Relax, Ana, we’ve not even acknowledged what’s and how’s. Remember, this is what you want it to be.”

It feels like a panicked, unnecessary reaction but I hiss, “Go to hell, Christian,” as I poise to jump up and retreat from the room, but Christian’s hand strikes out lightning quick to grab hold of my wrist. Under my breath I am whispering furious yet half-hearted commands for him to release me and to call off his bullshit compromise, all the while, and without much effort, Christian is gingerly pulling me back down to the bed and into his arms, collapsing the forts I took my time building, and settling me in his lap. My back is to his front, and his gloriously strong arms bind across my shoulders as he hugs me to his chest, his lips rustling my hair as he intones promises and reassurances to me. I just sit there and listen to him, taking a moment to breathe, and grasping hold of which section of the _hot, cold, hot, cold, hot_ pattern we are on.

As if he has the direct link to my pulse he loosens his hold on me as my heart calms. The message has not been properly conferred to my brain, but my hands reach up to stop him from moving away completely. I can feel the radiation of his smile warm me without seeing it. My eyes grow heavier with exhaustion by every passing minute.

“Tell me about the Anastasia I don’t know,” Christian implores softly, combing his fingers through the hair that covers my ears, brushing it up over my crown. The fingers of his other hand are strumming the skin of my neck. “Who are you when you aren’t with me?”

Such a defiant part of me wants to snap back at him that I am still me when I drink, but that is a level of naiveté I cannot bring myself to. I do not become a radically different person when I drink, but I strip myself of all of the qualities that give a person their strength, replace it with walls of carbon. I have no reserves, no stigmas. It is a liberating, empowering feeling, knowing that I can turn off a switch in my head whenever I so choose to.

“Who are you, Christian,” I mutter absently, still in my own thoughts, “when you step into a room with the woman you are about to dominate?” As his chest expands, I hear his breath hitch. Unruffled, I press on with, “Do you remain the same person that you are right now, the one holding me and kissing me?”

There is a long stretch of silence between us and Christian searches for my answers. In that unspoken way about us, I can sense that he is practicing restraint in the things he wishes to say to me but does not. Instead, he gives me a somewhat frustrated sigh of, “I don’t know.”

And his response does not surprise me. We are one in the same.

Or rather, we used to be.

  


 

  


  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you like angst. Stick around, we will overcome it eventually.


	11. Chapter 11

_I find myself walking with pause in my step this morning. I am sluggish._

The night before hadn't ended as I had thought it would. I expected to wake mussed, funky with the musk of love-making, and perhaps with a token of reminder on my behind of some light spanking. Instead my head and eyes feel heavy, the burn is behind my lids, not on my ass. I don't smell, but I would do well with an empty room, soap and water.

We talked.

It was as short, stilted and awkward as the summary sounded. He prodded me with questions I did not wish to answer; I stabbed back with snark, sarcasm. Rather than dig us into holes and carry on bickering with each other I'd simply gathered my things and waltzed right out of his room and into my bed. I can only hope today will be better.

Christian has went off to work till the early afternoon, where he has left on my bedside vague, brief instructions on what today was meant to be: the fulfillment of our compromise, despite our spat. He'd made a much too big breakfast for me, went to the store for fresh juice, and left me an intimidating black credit card on the countertop to buy whatever I needed. I had picked it up with such trepidation my fingers twitched. There was no lack of money from my inheritance in my bank account, and he knew that, but he was insistent that I allow him the favor. If I didn't do it for myself, he would have, regardless of my position on it.

I plop into the study room's big leather rolling chair and pull into the desk, an egg wrapped waffle hanging out of my mouth as I tap Christian's computer to life. On the desktop's background is a virtual sticky note with my name in bolded red on it. I roll my eyes but I cannot withhold my smile that instead of simply typing me the message, he'd written it out on his graphic tablet. His handwriting was faultless, as always.

" _Good morning._

_I've resigned that we'll be going through with this, but I thought it would be worth the mention that I still have somewhat conflicted feelings about the arrangement._

_Before my marriage, when I entered into my contractual agreements with other submissives, they were to sign a non-disclosure agreement before we even spoke on the matter._

_You are not them._

_For me, Ana, please sign the document in the drawer of this desk. It is not an NDA. It is not a rulebook of what you can and cannot do._

_It is a contract saying that you will not leave me as you had last._

_I am more than willing to teach you, to show you the things that pique your stubborn curiosity, but I refuse to discuss even the basic definitions of what we are getting into if the threat that you will run is between us. Nothing has to change, whether you change your mind or not._

_Whatever you decide, I will see you soon._

_~C."_

After a while I have to blink and rub my eyes from staring at the brightness of the computer screen for so long, and I huff a curse as I pluck up the food I'd dropped from my mouth onto the floor. When the mess has been cleaned I roll out the desk drawer half expecting the page to be filled with nonsensical legal jargon, but it gets straight to the point, no bullshit to be seen.

My thoughts in a limbo of half empty/half full, I sign.

_-With Sincerity, Yours-_

"'Other submissives?'" The words roll out of my mouth casually, interestedly. My expression can show nothing less than innocent intent as I twirl my fork through pasta not made for twirling. Still, Christian seems uncomfortable with my direction.

"That was a fairly long time ago, Ana."

"Yeah, I know… And yet you still have the NDA's on your computer."

There is a slight pause before he retorts, "For reference." His silver hovers halfway to his mouth for a moment, before his eyes narrow to slits and he cocks his head slightly to the side. "Going through my things?"

"I had." My answer is blunt but my voice has shrunken. I avoid his piercing stare as I set to clear my plate. I haven't eaten rigatoni alfredo in ages; I don't even need an excuse to be chowing down.

A low chuckle rumbles from the opposite side of the table and I glance up to see Christian rubbing his thumb across his lower lip with a smirk, looking nowhere in particular. My chewing speed has reduced by half before I swallow and toss out an, "Alright over there?"

"I am. I was thinking that making you my sub won't be quite as bad as I once thought."

"How ominous."

"I can finally punish you when you do wrong."

With the effort I put in, I hope I look at least somewhat unphased. The crook of Christian's grin rises ever higher; I know I am not succeeding.

"I apologize for last night."

"Oh. No, it's whatever now, Christian; water under the bridge," I say, caught off guard. He steeples his hands together, elbows on either side of his plate, and rests his chin atop the bridged fingers, eyes trained intently on me. It is so business-like I can imagine him taking the same stance as he talked to the people of his workplace. He's shifting into dom-mode before my very eyes.

"I don't mean to push you into things you aren't comfortable with, Ana. I realized after you'd gone to bed that that was the antithesis of how I should have been. In light of our mission, that is."

"Right." The word drags itself along as I take in the flow of a new atmosphere around us. It is unhurried, soothing even, and my adrenaline spikes a bit in direct correlation.

There is a light in Christian's eyes now, one I've seen very little of in all our years; it dances and swirls in the seemingly expanding depths of gray. My stomach churns with an unknown but unsullied excitement.

"We will work on it, communicating," he says with a slow nod, and I can feel the bass of his voice strum across my prickling skin. In the very back of my mind I know I am building a startling amount of anticipation for what could very well turn into another failed attempt between us, but no matter how much time or experience we have, I cannot not escape receiving the signals Christian sends. "It will be imperative in what's to come, and in a way, this will be the opportunity we need to reacquaint ourselves with one another."

"Sounds promising."

He answers my sigh with an auspicious smile. "It most certainly will be."

"When do we start?"

"Now. Come over here, Ana."

For a fraction of a second, my chin raises, mouth poised to give a retort, and it dawns on me in the same instance Christian's smile turns to a grin. This would not be as easy as I thought. Christian is patient as I push away from the table, speculative as I stand before him. His gaze sweeps me head to toe, languorously, giving nothing away.

"You ordered some clothes and other necessities for yourself, as I told you?"

"Yes."

"They'll arrive tomorrow?"

"Yes."

"Good. I want you to begin to feel this is as much your home as it is mine."

"I'm not guaranteed to stay, Christian."

"I know, and you are free to leave if you wish. But you won't be running anymore." The temperature of the room rises as he does, and I am shadowed by the proximity of him in front of me. His eyes are so dark from this angle they burn right through me. "I've made as many copies of your signature on that contract as I had paper in my office. I thought you should know that."

My mouth twitches with a smile. "That worried I'll be headed for the hills?"

A note of sadness pervades his voice, and he lifts his fingers to my cheek as he says, "You have before. I've simply taken a precaution that you'll come back."

"Will you take me now?" As much as I love to talk, I am hoping to be preoccupied in other ways. This, apparently, does not please him. There is another shift in mood when Christian's smile falls, and I am not sure if I've already done something wrong.

"That is another area we need to work on," he tisks, shaking his head. "This is not about the sex, Ana. I didn't agree to this to be your quick, easy bang."

"I never asked for that," I snap as I jerk out of his touch, offended. He gives a mollifying nod but seems otherwise unconvinced.

"Do you remember all the things I taught you about this, BDSM?"

"I do."

"Now take all of that knowledge and personify it, label it with our names on it." Christian's hand grazes my hip lightly, askingly, and at my guarded allowance he draws me closer to him, softening my resistance. "I want you to treat this like an art; like it's a living, breathing entity. I want you to be yourself, and you will  _always_ be my Ana, but in order to appreciate this you'll need to embrace it with an open mind."

"Okay..." He takes both my verbal and nonverbal cues before drawing me into him. This is not like what I am use to with him, and its nothing like the first time he introduced me to BDSM. We've not even gotten into it and I can  _feel_ more than anything what he's trying to describe.

"Don't worry, it'll come to you naturally after a while. Come to think of it, I'll be relearning the steps right beside you. I am sorely out of practice." Reading my dubious expression, he explains, "I haven't done this in a while."

This isn't really something I want to discuss, but I feel as if my thoughts leave me no choice. Christian watches me ever patiently, always so intuitive.

"You can ask me anything, Anastasia," he hints, tone as gentle as his hands. They roam lazy, tickling paths over my waist and sides, the small of my back. I curl my fingers around his strong forearm and exhale calmly.

"How long have you and Elena been having…uh, differences?"

Christian's eyebrow perks up high. He gives me a small, caustic smile. "It was shortly after we married. Very shortly after, for that matter."

I want to be surprised but simply can't. Their marriage never seemed like more than a hastily made decision to me from the beginning, but I did not fault Christian for his choice. It was his life, not mine. Elena was undoubtedly a strong, attractive woman, but the clash of two head-strung bulls was asking for trouble. To say aloud what we both knew to be true from the very get-go, that Christian went to Elena for nothing other than that he was desperate and hurt, was opening up something we simply couldn't handle right now.

"How deep down in the shit were you before you realized it stunk?"

"Ana," he admonishes, and I bite down on my lip to hide a smirk.

"I mean, when did it start to show you two were incompatible?"

"On the wedding night." His answer is so straight, so unflinchingly honest I almost feel bad I wished ill upon their union. It was destined to fail but Christian took a lot of pride in his choices. We were sifting through the not very well thought out ones now, but this one was much more permanent than the others. "It did not go well. We had separate honeymoons as well."

My eyes are the size of saucers. "Really? I didn't know that was a thing."

"It is, when you make enough to afford it. I didn't consider it a honeymoon, myself. It seemed more like separate vacations for us, to take the time to realize the agreement we'd just made."

"That is…very morbid."

"Very. But now that I've shared, I implore you to do the same. In your own time of course, no rush." His gaze is soft as he takes my hands, brings them to his mouth. "I have my playroom to show you, also."

I was a nanosecond away from an eyeroll. "Is it anything like the one you showed me the first time?"

His laugh is deep, spiriting. "No, not at all. Come, I think you'll approve this time around."

I fall into step behind him—up the stairs, around the hallway balcony, all the way down the hall. I have never been on this side of the house, and am ever aware of how huge the place is, how much money Christian had sunk into it. A strange sadness plays at my heart as I peek through the doors. There are three sparse rooms in this hall, barely touched, unlived in—he'd planned ahead in his construction, was ready for a family.

"How well do you remember the playroom, from way back when?" he asks, pulling me from my thoughts. He has been watching me the entire time, gauging what's going through my head. His tone is easy enough, but his expression holds a bit of tension, his eyes have slighted, mouth thinned.

"Uh, let's see. I remember it was in some garage. It smelled. You said a friend of yours lived there?"

"Luke," he chuckles. "Remember him?"

"I do. He was an odd one, but funny. Speak to him much anymore?"

"Often enough. He owns a partner firm of my company."

"You're lying."

"I'm not," he smirks. "He was strange, but he got shit done."

"And here I am, mooching off a childhood friend and getting him to flog me."

"Ana." His tone is reproachful but I can see he is amused, maybe even a bit excited. He gives my hand a light tug and we proceed down the rest of the hallway, to the very last door. "We'll work on it. I can't have you mooching the rest of your life away, now can I?"

"I wouldn't put it past you, actually, with a few addendums to the arrangement."

"Oh?" He is looking at me from the corner of his eye, and I realize I haven't properly fawned over how gorgeous he is today. Yesterday's scruff is gone, and clean shaven suits him as well as the stubble does. His jaw is so sharp and smooth I can imagine my tongue sliding over it with complete ease. I want him to get to opening this damn door already.

"Something like me having to be naked and bent over at the stairs every time you returned home from work, probably with a belt near, with a glass of cognac."

"You seem to be under the impression that spanking is the biggest part of bondage."

"Isn't it?" He responds to my surprise with a light smile and a squeeze of my hand. Without answering he opens the door to the playroom.

**Author's Note:**

> I thank you for giving this a chance, this will be ongoing. Please leave me your thoughts.


End file.
